


My Mother's Tongue

by Myzic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I am not Bilingual but still decided to write a language fic, Language, as in it revolves around language, but with a nice ending, kind of sad, prosey, what if languages are slightly different in the planes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myzic/pseuds/Myzic
Summary: “And where’re you coming from?” The barkeep asks. “How long have you been living in Faerun for?”“Uh, all my life, homie. Travel ‘round a lot to see the sights, you know? Gotta check out everything the world has to offer Taako.” Taako replies, falling back on old methods from when he didn’t have the skill to back up his confidence. Fake it ‘til you make it, baby.He pours a glass of water and offers it to Taako, who takes the glass gratefully. “Probably meet a lot of travelers, then,” he muses. “Just wondering where your accent is from. Can’t put my finger on it.”
Relationships: Lup & Taako (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	My Mother's Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my wonderful, awesome, bilingual friend Aurora who read this and made suggestions for the Language parts for me!! (Thank you, ilu)
> 
> I fucked with canon a bit to make this work because we can all hear their voices in the podcast and this doesn’t exactly line up. it's fine.

The flames of their campfire are warm after the long day, after ten hours of wandering dirt roads that worked an ever-present ache into his ankles, and who knows how long of far too many kobolds in the otherwise isolated ruins of Kalemert. Sitting, even if on his ragged and torn sleeping bag, makes him never want to stand up again. 

The archeologist who hired Magnus and the rest of their party stares at what they managed to salvage of the lost civilization, a worn and tarnished vase with unrecognizable symbols inlaid on its sides. She looks small, sitting by the fire, knees drawn to her chest as she alternately turns the object in her hands and sketches something down in her journal. They are all small in the absence of commiserating jokes and talk of their end goal, though the fire makes giants of them. Their shadows stretch and grow tall as the forest’s trees.

It is quiet, though slight winds blow through tree branches, and there is a constant shifting, scuttling, scampering from all that dwells in the woods. Magnus is quiet too, but only because no one else seems willing to talk right now. None of them are in the mood for fireside stories or compliments on how well they’d handled the ambush earlier that day, even if Magnus himself had taken his own fair share of the combatants. He’s out of his element like this, sat in silence among an unwilling audience.

He isn’t sure what they were expecting. They were called ‘ruins’ for a reason, weren’t they? And Kalemert had well and truly lived up to the moniker, most of its homes being reduced to little more than their foundation, public buildings, graveyards, a library full of rotting, molded books that the kobolds hadn’t deemed worthy enough to scavenge, a culture’s worth of knowledge ruined by time and the elements. Ruins. Kalemert is ruined, is a ruin, and Magnus isn’t sure why they expected anything else.

Magnus grabs his bag, and goes through it, wincing as a shallow but long cut on his arm twinges at the movement. He pulls out a roughly shaped block of wood that’s only beginning to look even vaguely duck-shaped and gets to work.

“ _ For fuck’s sake, it hasn’t even rained since the morning before today. _ ” A frustrated series of curses lilts nostalgically in his ears. 

In Raven’s Roost, during the rebellion, he was the one to bring in most of their Elf volunteers. They always looked surprised when he approached them, even as he tripped over his words, feeling thicker than he usually did, pretending he knew what he was doing, raising an army, protecting them, speaking Elvish. He didn’t really know what he was doing, Magnus thinks. In the end.

“ _ Do you need some help? _ ” He asks, setting down the carving in his lap, and Sigrid hesitates, seemingly taken aback before laughing.

“ _ Not unless that bit of wood in your lap is good for kindling _ ,” She returns and slips a few twigs into the fire. From across a wreath of flames, Ada, their cleric with winding ram’s horns, gives them a curious look for a moment before turning her attention away, shuffling closer to archeologist-whose-name-he’s-definitely-forgotten. 

Magnus glances down at it, and its bill is going to turn out well, he already knows. “ _ Put a lot of effort into this duck for such a small— _ ” he pauses, unsure of the Elvish word for ‘reward.’ It has something to do with the shine of gold, but it doesn’t come to him as Magnus pushes the boundaries of his memory. “ _ Spare me my duck, _ ” he returns instead, “ _ and it’ll be yours if I manage to finish it by the time we’re done here. _ ” 

“ _ Deal _ ,” Sigrid wipes her hands together and trudges back into the forest. Magnus sets aside his bag and his duck and gets up to help her, following her sure steps and keen eyes into pitch black.

It’s easier for him than for her, even without eyes that can peer through night. He knows what woods will catch, will feed, that the few pieces they do find should be whittled down into smaller chips that’ll be easier to light.

“ _ Where’d you learn the Fair Speak? _ ” She questions, using the name elves have for themselves and handing him another stick from the crook of a tree he can’t make out. “ _ Not Neverwinter, not Faerun.”  _ Sigrid hums in thought, but he’s too busy being confused to check the stick held loosely within his grasp. He still feels small, despite their distance from the fire, even without his own shadow to loom and give him the contrast of a child next to the shadowed behemoth.

“ _ Why _ ?” He responds. Magnus remembers his mother’s coworker, a co-organizer of the volunteer organization she’d run that liked to pinch his cheeks and coo at him in Elvish, with her hair in long rows threaded through shining golden beads, who agreed to teach him every time his mom brought him to work.

“ _ Just wondering where you got your accent. _ ” He isn’t sure what the look on his face is when she says that, because her next words are hurried, pacifying like she’d said something offensive. “ _ I like it, actually. It sounds super sweet, and warm almost. I like the way you sharpen your ‘R’s.” _

_ No, I don’t _ , his mind spits out, and for an aimless second of drifting confusion, his certainty is bone-deep.

“ _ O-oh. Um, my thanks to you _ ,” Magnus manages to get out the more formal Elvish thanks, and he pushes it aside, keeps working, and but he’s distracted for the rest of their conversation. They get back to the campsite and he forces himself to make the bewilderment recede, because, well, it’s her language. She’s the native speaker, she would know better, right?

Right. He scrubs away the doubt in his thoughts.

Magnus sleeps that night but does not rest unhindered as the small lump of  _ wrong, she’s wrong _ , lays beneath his pillow and chases his thoughts around until the fire’s hearth blurs into dappled sunlight.

* * *

There’s something comforting about the words of well-read books. They’re like friends, waiting open-armed, unknowing of how long you’ve been gone or how much you’ve changed since you read their lines last. He fits there, between the pages, in the lines and scripture, even though it’s been a fair few decades since his dad read him the Book of Pan, the same way he does now for Mookie, hoisted hefty onto his lap, and Mavis, hanging off the couch, and over onto his armchair. The Book of Pan is something he knows cover to cover, even if he didn’t appreciate it much the first… ten or so times he read it as a kid. To be honest, it could stand for a little more spice here and there, a little more excitement. 

So, Merle turns it into stories for his kids, says, “And so Pan grew every blade of grass by— what, fertilizer? Nah, he just quirked a finger at those bad boys and said ‘come on up outta the ground, baby’ and then they did.”

“Woah!” Mookie shifts on his lap. “Do you think he’s okay with me rippin’ it up all the time? 

“He’s probably fine with it, so long as you stop shoving it in your mouth,” and Mavis rolls her eyes— she’s read it before, heard too many of the stories to be fooled by his retellings and he wants to pat her on the head, tell her not to give up on kid things like wonder and imagination just yet.

“Yeah, that’s fine, Mooks,” He pats his son on the knee, and Merle never thought he’d be cut out for fatherhood, but this? This he could do, and right now he’s pretty sure he isn’t doing too bad of a job at it at least. “And, you know, Pan loves you a lot more than any blade of grass.”

Couldn’t be too much of a fuckup if Mookie kept looking at him like that. Like he was someone worth looking up to.

The next line is strange, and not strange in how old books are strange, where you read them and can’t make heads or tails of what the hell the author was trying to say in the first place, but weird in that he’s pretty sure that’s not how it happened. The phrasing is all off, and Merle remembers this passage completely different. The sun came before the grass because the grass needed it to grow, but there in front of him, in clear print, it says that the grass came and Pan crafted sunbeams to stop them from wilting— in fancy schmancy words, of course, but still wrong.

He cops out of a clear decision, and reads it in Dwarvish, which he should be anyway. “ _ Then, Pan, he, the creator of the earth on which we walk, made that big ol’ ball of fire in the sky we call the sun so everything daren’t die _ .”

“ _ Why don’t you just say, ‘he made,’ Merle? _ ” Mavis wrinkles her nose, but she’s grinning for the first time in the story, and he returns it.

“ _ What? You don’t like the way I speak, kiddo? S’just how it is in Dwarvish. _ ” He lectures teasingly, “ _ We, that are on sand and wave, your cousins, that are in rock and stone. That’s how it goes, and I ain’t gonna let anyone say I, the teacher, daren’t do it right. _ ”

“ _ You talk funny _ ,” Mookie cackles, and then the book is tossed aside and Mookie is writhing in his arms as Merle tickles him, his shrieks of laughter filling the room. “ _ Dad _ !”  _ Paw-pah _ , he screams and it is the sound of joy.

“ _ I, with words spoken in jest, make you laugh like this? _ ” He says and Mavis, with his other favourite sound in the world chimes in with peals of laughter that fill the room and his heart, and Merle never, never understood the appeal of children until he got some of his own.

Hekuba is a silent presence in the doorway, watching them. He glances over, expecting that soft look she gets sometimes in the early morning between her tea (elderberry, with milk and no sugar) and hours of work at the office. Instead, she’s wearing a small frown, and Merle tries not to let the disappointment show on his face, but Mavis can obviously tell something is up because she looks between them and pulls Mookie off his lap.

“C’mon, little guy,” She mutters, “Merle and Ma are gonna talk.”

“Oh, wait, honey, you don’t have to—”

Hekuba sits herself down on the couch next to him, and interrupts, “Actually, I made some grilled cheese for you and Mookie. If you two bring it up to your room we can watch a movie together?” She gives the kids a smile that doesn’t fool Merle, nevermind their too clever kid, who gives a resigned grimace in return.

“Summer in Lenny again?” Mavis asks.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Let’s watch Jeff Angel and the Radical Benefits of Basic Decency!” Mookie inputs his own opinion as Mavis leads him to the kitchen and Hekuba turns to him with a sigh.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, “didn’t mean to interrupt, but… we do actually need to talk.”

“Alright, but uh, what about?” Merle asks.

“Just— you know Mavis is going into middle school this year, and Mookie is still so young. I want them to fit in and stuff. Make friends.” She explains, splaying her hands like her mouth-words mean anything, clarify anything to him. “So, would you mind… laying off the formalities a bit when you talk?”

“Formalities?” Merle replies, and wonders if this is one of those things he’s never really gonna understand, like why Hekuba doesn’t like his Kenny Chesney tattoo, or cheese fondue, or why people don’t appreciate bell peppers (the yellow ones, obviously) the way they deserve to be. “Whattaya mean?”

“Merle, look, I don’t know what you picked up on that whole sabbatical you took, but people are going to make fun of Mavis, and I really want to get Mookie’s sentence structure on track.” Hekuba reasons, and he still isn’t sure what she’s talking about. Her whole job is in management, allocation of resources, organizing the divers, and paperwork, but all he does? Merle’s job is talking, talking about Pan, talking at the weekend prayers, on holidays, at summer school. It’s his whole thing, and she’s telling him he’s doing it wrong?

The sabbatical doesn’t have anything to do with it. Sure, he went traveling, as all good Pan clerics should— spread the good word and all that, but Merle speaks plain and simple. He is plenty articulate, thanks.

“If anything you guys could stand to be a little less casual when you speak,” He returns instead, because didn’t she say something or other about being formal? If he’s being formal then they need to be more of— more of that. Yeah.

“No, I’m just saying,” Hekuba sighs and he hates that, hates that it sounds like she’s disappointed in him and he doesn’t even know what for, “cool it with the Ye Olde Dwarvish, alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” Merle agrees, “whatever.” She purses her lips and he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, but he says it anyway.

He thinks about the Book of Pan and his speech, how it’s wrong, apparently, without his notice. Words are like old friends, Merle thinks. Because the words are the same, but he is different. He has to be for them to have such an ill fit where they once wrapped him in their familiar embrace that he has only now noticed is too tight for comfort.

* * *

It stings a little, finding that maybe the whole chef and cooking lifestyle isn’t for him when he gives himself the time to look back. Not only does it sting (though only when he can think past the horror of how many people he massacred), but it leaves him with very few serviceable skills. His magic is sub-par at best, but it’s the only thing going for him, the only thing that’s gonna get Taako where he wants to go, even if that itself is a work in progress right now.

That’s fine for now. After Sizzle it Up, he figures he’s okay for some me-time, recalibrating and all that. Shine up the brand, maybe change things around a bit.

Taako’s got himself figured out. It’s everyone else who’s confused, who can’t make heads or tails of him, and they gotta be quicker on the uptake because Taako’s five steps into the future while everyone he’s ever met is twelve steps behind. He’s got his own thing going on, and hey, he might just survive this whole adventurer thing and come out a couple of gold richer not jumping into battle like every half-wit damage sponge with more muscle than sense.

Bars, like the one he’s in now with its wooden walls and bard who couldn’t carry a tune if his life depended on it, are great for adventuring. There’s always some board with a couple of flyers posted to it, a couple of lug heads drinking their weight on a barstool, and sometimes, a ready-made party interested in a wizard with a few extra tricks up his sleeve. 

He slides a few anonymously signed bar-sanctioned missions to the bartender. “ _ Got any recommendations to hand out? Lookin’ for something that doesn’t end with my corpse and preferably a good chunka change. _ ”

“ _ Haven’t heard back from the last party who started asking ‘bout this one _ ,” Light brown hair slides over his shoulder as the barkeep leans forward, tapping on a picture of a forest in the Felicity Wilds way out past Phandalin. “ _ I’d steer clear if I were you. _ ” Taako gives him a once over. Cute. With silky smooth hair and warm brown eyes, the other elf wasn’t his usual type but he might do in a pinch.

“ _ Hmm, what about drink preferences _ ?” He drawls, resting his head on a palm before feeling weird about the movement and pulling back as naturally as he can. “ _ Got any advice on those too, cutie _ ?”

The hollowed part of his stomach gurgles at the reminder of food and Taako scowls, mood souring. Before, when he was younger, anything he could get his hands on was good enough to eat, but it’d been so long since then. A few months ago, Taako might have laughed at the idea of eating something at a crappy little rinky-dink bar like this that probably freeze-dried the patties in their burgers.

Now the thought of eating anything he makes with his own two hands makes him feel like he’ll shiver, tremble and convulse apart like the people of Glamour Springs did the minutes after he fed them their deaths.

“ _ Actually, I think I’ll be taking your meal of the day _ ,” Taako says. “ _ Whatever you got with two kinds of carbs at microwave-temp in the least _ .”

“ _ Right up, Mister… _ ”

“ _ Taako _ ,” He tells him and doesn’t add on the rest, not with Glamour Springs still on his mind and less than a year since he hightailed it out of town. For once, Taako doesn’t want this bartender with clean sleeves and a rounded face to recognize him.

“ _ And where’re you coming from _ ?” He asks. Taako stiffens, casts Detect Magic and concentrates, because for a moment it feels like he’s read Taako’s mind, sniffed out his guilt even with the scent of sour breath and guilt hanging heavy in the air as it always does during late nights at bars. He hasn’t survived long as he has without his wits above the tip of his hat and arming himself with caution like a palmed dagger. “ _ How long have you been living in Faerun for _ ?”

But the spell comes up with empty hands other than a few knives at the side of a halfling in a button-up, one of the bar’s mugs across the room quietly enchanted to be bottomless, and his own wand tucked up the holster in his arm. Taako blinks and laughs, because if he’s gonna be taken off guard, he’s gonna die doing it, and not because some barkeep in fuck-all nowhere asked a weird question.

“ _Uh_ , _all my life, homie._ _Travel ‘round a lot to see the sights, you know? Gotta check out everything the world has to offer Taako_.” Taako replies, falling back on old methods from when he didn’t have the skill to back up his confidence. Fake it ‘til you make it, baby.

He pours a glass of water and offers it to Taako, who takes the glass gratefully. “ _ Probably meet a lot of travelers, then _ ,” he muses. “ _ Just wondering where your accent is from. Can’t put my finger on it _ .”

“ _ Oh yeah, that. Well, you coulda just asked ‘cause Taako’s a born and bred New Elfington citizen _ ,” he blusters and takes a sip of water, only for it to go down like a swallowed gold piece in the sudden tightness of his throat. “ _ And I’ve picked up a few things here and there, but the rest’s all authentic, one-hundo percent cha’boy _ .”

“ _ New… Elfington _ .” He’s lost him, not that he had grand plans for— Taako squints at the smudged nametag on his apron, clearly having had one or two drinks upended on it over his career—  _ Harg _ . Ugh, no.

The conversation dies a little after that, the barkeep clearly having lost interest in the mystique of the handsome adventuring wizard, and normally he might be offended by that— he’s got mystique oozing out of his ears, coming out of his pockets, he’s got more of it than this guy could hope to  _ handle— _ but Taako’s desire for small talk has gone on vacation and he finds himself running his fingers around the rim of his drink as he thinks.

The thing is, he remembers learning Elvish because there was a year in between all the handing off from relative to relative, where he got lost in the system and spent a while in an orphanage. Occupied and primarily inhabited by humans who didn’t speak a lick of anything other than milk-bland Common. When he got to his Aunt’s, he’d forgotten, or at least gotten pretty rusty because he couldn’t exactly practice when he had no one to practice with.

And she had never corrected him, never sat him down and told him ‘this is how we do things,’ or made a fuss when he knew he’d gotten the inflection on her name wrong when they were talking a shared tongue ( _ Marr _ -ie-eh with emphasis on the first syllable.) She just spoke to him whenever she could, practicing as they cooked, making sure to sprinkle the words he was unsure of throughout her sentences naturally, never mocking or embarrassing him for it. 

Taako remembers sitting up in his bed at night, a luxury at the time, and now too he supposes, and holding the words gentle in his mouth like the perfect smooth-shelled macarons Aunt Maria taught him to rap on the counter, like delicate eggshells and scavenged treasures held soft in the hollows of his cheeks. He remembers laying awake and staring at the ceiling, curling his tongue against the roof of his mouth and around the shape of the word.  _ Elena _ . Stars.  _ Anîr _ . Want.  _ Nos _ . Family.

_ Im reven anîr- na laev _ .

He doesn’t like it, the doubt creeping into his mind now at his own words which he’d spoken with such confidence not a few moments before. If there’s one thing he knows, one thing Taako can rely on, it’s that he knows himself. He knows who he is.

His style is his own, his magic, his inflection, his own language. He has had to fight for everything he has, and Elvish is no different. Taako refuses to give up another piece of himself, especially now that… now that it’s looking like food-related hobbies are off the table for the foreseeable forever.

But. He thought he knew Transmutation too, and Taako wonders how long it’ll be before another thing he holds dear, another keystone of his world is turned against him. 

Maybe he doesn’t know himself that well after all.

  
  
  


They’re in the kitchen when he hears Lup speak Elvish for the first time in over a decade. It makes sense, because the kitchen is a place for family and Taako doesn’t know why he never realized that before, even without his memory, how he never felt the gaping chasm of a lost presence beside him.

“ _ Hey, throw on over the salt won’t you? _ ” Lup catches the tossed shaker out of the air with a mage hand and with an expert toss of fine grains over the roast, sets it aside and keeps slicing. “ _ I asked for the salt, not an overhand pitch, Koko. Besides, I thought you had better aim than that _ .”

“ _ Well,  _ excusez-moi _ if I’ve got my attention on some kickass au jus rightta ‘bout now _ ,” Taako chimes back, and they both ignore the times when he knocks into her shoulder, or turns around, hot pan in hand without warning her of the scalding metal in his arms. If she stops in the middle of cutting to rub her fingers together, take a deep breath, and bite down on her lip, Taako ignores that too.

It’s weird, searching out the spaces between them, the pauses and hesitations that have grown with the other’s absence when they never had to before. Navigating Lup used to be mindless, automatic, like a foot in front of the other, cantrips and prestidigitation showering sparks, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much. If some awkward fumbling is the cost of fitting back into Lup’s life, into his sister’s life, Taako’s more than willing. And he’s only a little bit bitter about having to do so in the first place, which he thinks is more than due.

The smell of the beef broth, salt, soy, and garlic tickles his nose as Taako lets the sauce steam and cool under his diligence. He ducks to check the buns in the oven, which have lightly toasted, tops now a golden brown that shines with the egg wash. The oven door is pulled open and without a word, Lup turns to take out the tray with her mage hand as Taako gives the sauce another good stir just to make sure the ingredients have all mixed in.

“ _ Did you invite Kravitz _ ?” She asks, and the mage hand flaps uselessly at the cooling buns. “ _ Actually, can Kravitz even eat? Like, me and Barry have our whole shebang with Mama Bird, but your boyfriend doesn’t have skin half the time _ .”

Taako snorts and pours the finished sauce into nine bowls (Lup thinks he doesn’t know they invited Lucretia, but this is his place, and he’s pretty much a god in his domain.) “ _ I’ve seen Kravitz suck back a honey glazed rotisserie in five flat, my dude, he can  _ eat.”

“ _ Kay, cool. Well, that answers that question, but now I wanna know how he digests. Like, what happens when he goes all skull-faced and his intestines disappear _ ?”

He jams toothpicks into the sandwiches Lup lays down beside his bowls of au jus, and waves one between his middle and forefinger. “ _ Lulu, that’s kiddy stuff. Ever heard of this handy place called ‘the plane of magic’ that lets us do all kinds of _ —”

Lup pulls down his brimmed hat, which has his hair bundled up inside, over his eyes and he tries to yank it up before realizing it’s not letting go of the hairs on his forehead. “ _ Look, Taako can cast blind, but I think you and I both know, you do not want me to _ ,” he says, and he could do a Dispel Magic, but his hat is enchanted so the star system above their plane swirls and shifts to match the skies, and he doesn’t want to disrupt the arcana. Taako likes this hat.

“ _ If you had spell shaping, maybe you’d have a better chance at getting one over me in return _ ,” Lup teases, though they both know he wouldn’t have a chance in hell. A century of arcane practice is one thing, but a contract with the Raven Queen boosted both his sister and jeanboy with the magic equivalent of a pack of fantasy mentos dumped into a barrel of Koca Kola. “ _ That’s what you get for settling for an inferior school of magic _ .”

She calls out in Common. “Babe! Gotta new pet project for us. Get this— Bone boy’s intestines!”

Instead of Barry popping through the doorway, Magnus’s mug peeks into the kitchen. “ _ You guys aren’t withholding the eats, are you? ‘Cause I feel half-starved out here. Do I get _ —”

“ _ Three sandwiches, and half the entire-ass bovine we bought to make them _ ,” Taako replies, and he fist pumps before disappearing back into the dining room where the rest of their family is waiting.

He levitates four of the plates, and Lup does the rest of them, bumping his hip and he’s not holding the plates, but Levitate is still a concentration spell so Taako jabs her back after a second of making sure their food hasn’t shattered against the floor.

She laughs and says, “ _ Missed you, Taako. And… cooking with you. _ ”

There’s a time he might have laughed it off, not that long ago even, might have answered in dismissals and snide replies about still having feelings. But, it’s been a long decade, and Taako’s missed way too many ‘I love you’s’ to consider skipping this one too.

Maybe they’re relics, not ones of power and corruption, but the kind that belongs in a museum, speaking things, phrasing things from a place a century into their past. Taako thinks, if the words they speak are relics, they are the kind worth remembering, worth treasuring. Every kitchen is a home, but they’ve only ever been homes in the first place because Lup was there with him, and now that she’s back, his kitchen feels like home too. Hearing her speak, a lilted melody he hasn’t heard in a lifetime feels like exultation and relief all at once.

Taako isn’t even identical to her anymore, but if words have power, he knows the ones they share are far more binding than any spoken spell or shared pattern of freckles.

So, he curls his tongue to the roof of his mouth, like the words are something precious between the hollows of his cheeks, a delicate eggshell, Lup.

“ _ Love you too, Lulu _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> *in that one Elvish sentence, Taako said, “I never want to leave.”
> 
> come find me @themagicmistress on Tumblr!


End file.
